


Noli me tangere

by BromeliadDreams



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aro-Spec Character, Awkward Conversations, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff without Plot, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, sensory issues, wanton cruelty to the common comma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BromeliadDreams/pseuds/BromeliadDreams
Summary: Two idiots who care very deeply about each other do a terrible job of communicating this fact. (They manage it eventually.)





	Noli me tangere

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some extremely nebulous timeline that doesn't actually match up with events in canon, oops. Very minor spoilers for MAG 89 and references to the events of MAG 99 and 101. There didn't seem to be a good tag for it, but this fic deals with Jon's aversion to skin-to-skin contact, so this is a content warning for that.
> 
> I'm very bad at thinking of titles, so apologies for the heavyhanded Latin.

Jon’s had too much coffee and not enough sleep. He knows the symptoms: compulsive foot-tapping, heart doing a lopsided thump- _thump_ in his chest, thoughts skittering wildly from point to point, unable to settle on any of them. But he can _feel_ the pattern building somewhere in the back of his brain, and he knows if he stops now, it’ll all come unravelled. Just one more statement…

When the door to his office opens, he nearly drops the file, he’s so on edge. Martin gives him a look that’s a mixture of concern and exasperation. It’s a look he’s very good at. “C’mon, Jon, time to go home,” he says, clearly repressing a sigh.

“Last one, I promise,” Jon says, holding up the file. He’s aware his reassuring smile has come out a bit too wide to be entirely comforting.

“Yes, you said that last time I came in. _Three hours ago_.”

Under Martin’s watchful eye, Jon becomes aware of the state of his office. He’s very dutiful about putting statements back in the right folders – having made such a fuss about Gertrude’s _lax filing standards_ when he took over as Head Archivist, he can hardly do anything else – but his own notes are a disaster, post-its stuck to the (purely decorative) computer monitor, notebooks held open by other notebooks in architecturally unsound stacks. He sighs on Martin’s behalf.

“Sorry. I just really think I’m on to something here. So many of these statements, it’s clearly not just one entity at work, and if there’s a pattern in which of them works with which… But I just _can’t figure it out_.” With each word, he thumps the heel of his hand into his forehead. Entirely absurd, but sometimes it seems to dislodge the right thoughts…

Warm hands wrap around his wrists. Martin’s gentle – of course he is, he’s _Martin_ – but Jon can’t help the way his fingers twitch and shoulders tense. Martin drops his wrists like he’s been electrocuted.

“Sorry! Sorry! I know you don’t like… I just…”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, and he knows he’s being brusque, but he can’t help it. The sudden sick-to-the-stomach, fight-panic-flee response that comes from unexpected physical contact is still coursing through him, and he clenches his fists until the nails dig into his palms, trying steady himself. “Sorry. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid. It’s not your fault.”

Martin’s giving him the look again. “It’s not _stupid_ , Jon. Melanie would’ve stabbed me if I’d tried something like that on her, and after all the stuff you’ve gone through with the…” he swallows, “skin dancers and the, the _weird meat things_ , well, it makes sense you’re a bit… on edge.”

Jon’s coffee-addled brain gets halfway through at least three possible replies to this, but all that comes out is, “Ah.” It’s very sweet of Martin to chalk this up to the influence of a horrifying extradimensional fear entity; it’s impossible to tell him that Jon’s always been a twitchy mess when it comes to human contact.

He sighs and begins to extricate himself from several archaeological layers of biros and ripped-out note pages. Whatever pattern had been starting to coalesce in his head has long since fled. Time to go home, have something from the frozen section of the supermarket, and try to persuade his body that sleep would be more helpful than an all-night adrenaline rush.

Martin’s still hovering by the time Jon’s got his coat and bag together. He keeps shooting Jon these little concerned looks, which is all very _endearing_ and extremely unhelpful, because Jon has absolutely no idea what to do with someone he feels endeared _towards_.

They head towards the tube station together. Just before they get to the ticket barriers, Martin says, “Look, do you want to come to mine this evening?”

Jon shoots him a sideways look; he’s staring straight ahead, pointedly not making eye contact. Jon manages a very articulate, “Um…”

“You don’t have to!” Martin hastens to reassure him. “And I didn’t mean it like people do when they say, ‘Won’t you come in for some coffee, wink-wink.’ I just thought, well, you might like to spend some time… not… alone in your flat?”

“Do people really say that?” Jon asks, momentarily distracted.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it. Usually by the time I’m at the ‘inviting people round’ stage, it’s easier just to _ask_ if they want to have sex.”

Jon’s brain momentarily short-circuits. It’s kind of a relief, to be honest.

Clearly feeling this conversation has taken a wrong turning, Martin makes a valiant effort to wrestle it back on track. “Anyway. I just thought it was nice when you came round last week and maybe you’d like to… come round… again?”

Considering Jon’s alternative evening plans consist of a microwave meal for one and zoning out in front of a documentary until it’s a respectable time to lie in bed and zone out there, it’s an easy choice.

An hour or so later, they’re sitting on Martin’s sofa, half a tray of reheated lasagne on the coffee table and probably the exact same documentary Jon would’ve been watching at home playing on Martin’s laptop. But instead of Jon’s thoughts drifting off into wordless horror at the many, _many_ things that want them all dead, or retreading the usual spiral of guilt and recrimination, he finds he’s actually… watching the documentary? Or at least, watching Martin watch the documentary, which is honestly more entertaining. Martin has a very expressive face, and every time a particularly gruesome detail about medieval medicine is revealed, he wrinkles his nose and grimaces at the screen. It’s quite appallingly charming.

Jon is aware that he’s smiling to himself, and he’s extremely grateful Martin’s attention is focused on the screen rather than on him. But it’s nice, he admits, just to exist in proximity to Martin’s comforting solidity. Slowly, he lets himself relax into the sofa. If that means his leg ends up close enough to Martin’s that he can feel the warmth through his trouser-leg, well, that’s… fine.

(And it really is. For all Jon’s frankly ridiculous startle-response when it comes to skin-to-skin contact, feeling the warmth of another living body is… good. It’s why he gets on so well with the Admiral. It’s also something he’s terrified the Archivist part of him will strip away, a sacrifice to the whispers that go _it’s easiest to keep your distance, you’re better off as an observer, it’s not your place to get involved._ Jon can’t remember when the whispers started.)

At some point during this bit of introspection, Martin shifts so that his shoulder is pressed against Jon’s. This, Jon decides, is also good. He leans into the touch and sees Martin smile softly to himself.

The documentary ends and they stay sitting like that, a single line of contact between them, for some time. Jon’s not sure how long because without the background nose of the laptop to distract him, his thoughts have gone haring off again: _do I want this? does he want this? what even_ is _this?_ round and round in an endless loop.

Eventually, Martin speaks, his voice high and even more hesitant than usual. “Um. So, I know what I said about this not being coffee, but, um, I would really like to kiss you right now, but I think that might freak you out and I don’t want to do that, but I do want to put it out there that it’s an option. If…. If you’d be interested. Um.”

He speaks like he’s afraid Jon will bolt for the door at any second, and his expression can only be described as queasy. Jon feels something twist inside him. He wants things to go back to how they’d been a few minutes ago, Martin warm against his side, both of them easy in the other’s company. But that doesn’t seem to be an option. All that’s left is to decide whether to go forwards, or just cut and run from this whole disaster.

He’s getting a bit sick of running away.

“I wouldn’t freak out,” he protests, and hopes that’s true, _come on, it’s just a physical stimulus, you’ve been through worse_. Martin still looks sceptical though, so in the end it’s Jon who leans in and presses his lips to Martin’s. The kiss is soft and dry and warm, and not _horrible_ , all things considered. Martin makes a small noise that might be a sigh or a laugh, Jon can’t quite tell, and kisses him back. One of his hands moves to Jon’s leg. The other cups the back of Jon’s head.

Jon tries to hide it, but they both notice when he goes still and tense. The sensation of Martin’s hand is like an itch in his skull and it’s all he _can_ feel, this need to get away, to claw the feeling until it’s _gone_. He doesn’t move but Martin does, hands dropping to his lap, shuffling away on the sofa until there’s a clear foot of space between them.

“I… Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “I promise it’s not you. I’m just…” His brain supplies several caustic adjectives for what Jon’s _just_. The next sentence comes out in a rush. “Look, when people touch me, sometimes it feels like burning.” _There_. He’s said it.

Martin’s eyes drop to Jon’s hand, still a bit too red and shiny from his encounter with Jude Perry. “No, not like that,” he says impatiently, which is unfair because it’s not Martin’s fault he doesn’t understand this thing Jon hardly knows how to put into words himself. He takes a deep breath. “Maybe ‘itching’ is more accurate? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s not an entity thing. God, I wish it were. But apparently that’s just… how I am.” He hopes that didn’t come out as bitter as it sounded in his head. “It’s fine… I’m not… It’s just a weird thing, OK? Usually, as long as I’m not taken by surprise, it’s fine.”

“But it’s not something you _want_?” Martin’s voice is very soft.

Jon takes a deep breath. If it’s going to be Excruciating Emotional Honesty Hour in the Blackwood household, he might as well go all in. “Not exactly _want_ , no, but with some people I want to, well, to be close to them and that always seems to involve touching, and it’s _fine_ , really it is, I’m not going to _die_ of it or anything. I just… can’t always control that initial reaction. But like I said, it’s _fine_ , and I do… I do want to be close to you, and I’m sure that once I’ve had a chance to get used to it, it’ll be… fine.” _Well, that’s the height of romance right there,_ Jon thinks disgustedly. _“I can probably learn to tolerate you_.” That’s not what he means, but it’s how it always comes out, and Martin’s looking away, chewing his lip, and Jon should probably just leave now and maybe they can both pretend this whole evening didn’t happen.

When Jon finally meets his gaze, Martin’s giving him a considering look. “Is it… all kinds of touching?” he asks tentatively. “Only I noticed when we were sitting next to each other, you seemed to be OK with that?”

Jon nods. “It’s mostly skin-to-skin,” he admits. “Through clothing is usually fine. Actually, I quite like it.” A horrifying vision surfaces in his mind and he hastily adds, “But if you’re thinking we can _Pushing Daisies_ our way through this, I’d like to veto that in the strongest possible terms.”

Martin gives a little snort of laughter. “That wouldn’t be my first choice, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says with a sigh.

“Why?” Martin asks, genuinely startled.

“Well, just, you don’t deserve all this nonsense.” Jon flaps a hand in his own direction. “I know I’m absurdly bad at showing it, but I do care about you a great deal and you deserve, I don’t know, a _normal_ boyfriend. Or at least one that doesn’t try to jump out the window every time you hold his hand.”

“Oh my God, I’m in love with an idiot.” Jon’s heart does something distinctly uncomfortable, and Martin’s doing his exasperated-concerned face again, although on balance, it’s decidedly towards the more exasperated end of the spectrum. “Jon, have I ever given even the slightest indication that I _want_ a normal boyfriend? I mean, OK, I wouldn’t _object_ to all that handholding, kissing in the moonlight stuff. Or, well, you know. Sex. But it’s not _everything_ , you know?” Jon stares fixedly at his knees. Martin continues: “Also, sorry, but why is _this_ the thing that makes you abnormal? Because not to put too fine a point on it, but even if you were the most picket-fence, 2.4 kids kind of person in the world, you’re also _the avatar of an all-knowing entity_. I feel like if anything’s going to be the dealbreaker here, it should probably be that.”

This startles Jon into laughter. “Well that’s true, I suppose. I just… I need you to know that I’m not ever going to be good at… casual affection, or, well, _boyfriend stuff_ in general, and I understand if that means you don’t want to do,” he waves a vague hand, “this. I don’t exactly have a great track record with this kind of thing.”

Martin snorts. “Look, even if all we ever do is sit an inch apart on the sofa watching horrible documentaries together, I’ll still take it. I just like being around you. I like… taking care of you. I don’t even mind being in unrequited love as long as I don’t have to try to pretend I’m _not_. I don’t want anyone else, and I don’t want anything you can’t give me. I thought I’d been pretty clear about that.”

His voice has risen steadily over the course of this speech, and he finishes with a defiant jerk of his chin.

Jon is… Jon is not handling this well, he knows that. His mouth is very dry and the silence between the two of them seems to deepen with every second. He clears his throat. “I’d like that. I mean, not the you being unrequited bit – and it’s, uh, not, by the way. Unrequited, I mean. It’s just complicated – I’m not sure I know how to be _in love_ , but I do, uh, care about you and, yes the whole thing sounds… good.” By this point, he’s hunched over his knees in a paroxysm of embarrassment. “Oh, _bloody_ hell,” he mutters.

Slowly and deliberately, giving Jon time to move away if he wants, Martin edges closer. When Jon doesn’t retreat, he nudges him gently with one shoulder. “That’s good enough for me,” he says, and the smile in his voice feels like the sun coming out.

Jon leans into the warmth that is Martin, his voice, his presence. The wool of Martin’s jumper is soft under his cheek, and Martin obligingly leans forward so he can wrap an arm round his waist. With his jumper sleeves folded carefully over his hands so no skin is visible – a detail Jon observes and treasures – Martin returns his embrace.


End file.
